I just pooped on the floor, now help me clear it up

There are a few things I am getting mighty tired of hearing. I am of course back on the ghastly aftermath of Brexit, an event I view as catastrophic. One is “this isn’t about you” (well oddly enough, on my blog it is), the other is “We all have to get on with it now.” The later, whilst usually in the written form, feels as though it is barked in a testy authoritarian voice. I feel as though someone has just crapped on the floor of the house we share and is now asking my help in clearing it up. If I might stretch the scatalogical reference a tad further, the thing is just sitting there, getting worse and the one ‘what did it’ is now nowhere to be seen. Well, actually no. I will not help clear it up. In fact if the ones who created the mess do not know how to clear it up, then I am damned if I do. Or if I want to. All I know is I want the house back the way it was. Before the poop. I am tired. I have slept badly all week. My nerves are frayed, my heart is broken. I am depressed. I am angry. And the last thing I want to do is help clear up. The first thing I feel like doing is finding a way out of here. I hope life will heal, with the gentle balms of time and love. At some point life with find its equilibrium. Until then I am indifferent to the torrent of bile coming my way. It is in a way quite liberating. I no longer care. @artistofhullDSC_0182


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